First in Waking
by dog.spartacus
Summary: Tag for 4x23. He wakes, and she's still there.


A/N: This has been bouncing around in my head since May. It finally tumbled out in August. I've abstained from reading all Castle fanfic in the meantime so that my work was not inadvertently influenced by someone else's, so I hope no one beat me to this story. I welcome all reviews and constructive criticism.

Spoilers: If you don't know how Season 4 ends, you definitely shouldn't read any further. (But, honestly, if you don't know how Season 4 ends, how have you survived the summer?!) This one-shot could be the start of Season 5, or maybe just a post-ep, long in coming.

And here is the obligatory disclaimer: these characters are _so_ not mine.

* * *

"First in Waking"

He wakes first. It's slow and sleepy, and he smiles as his eyes flutter open against her shoulder. She is curled against him, sound asleep, and he is so overjoyed at having her there—at her having been there last night, through the night, and still right now—that he wants to scream. He holds it in, though, and he struggles to contain the elated wiggle that pinballs its way through his body, too. In the effort to temper his unprecedented joy, he grits his teeth and takes a few deep breaths. He imagines that his face right now would terrify her if she could see him. He also imagines that this is how a seizure feels, the way his insides tremble as he maintains the calm exterior. All this effort, not to wake her.

He expected her to run. He knows that she's only still here because she hasn't yet awoken, and he wouldn't dare do anything to compromise how long she'll stay. This means no waking her, which means no gleeful squealing and no animated happy dances in the bed. It probably even means no snuggling closer or kissing her bare shoulder right now, either. He sighs, settling back down behind her briefly before popping up again to peer over her form at his bedside alarm clock—he can't stop grinning at the fact that he has to sit up to see the time, can't see it because _she's beside him in his bed_. It's just before seven. He nods to himself, impressed by how long she has stayed, then settles back down again.

He has to pee. He refuses to get up. He knows that the disturbance in the mattress—because despite how much money he paid for one of those ones that don't jostle the other person even when you jump on your side (he knows because he's tried it), he knows that her superhuman cop senses would detect a _feather _falling onto the mattress behind her—would wake her, and she'd be out the door before he'd made the decision whether to risk flushing the toilet in the next room. So he stays, tries to hold it as long as possible, just to have her in his arms for that much longer. And now that he's awake, he's terrified of going back to sleep, for fear that she'll rise and slip away without a word.

His muscles are exhausted, though, and cannot take the tension of his hyper-vigilance. He was not built for self-restraint. It might have been twenty minutes, or it might have been three, but either way, her heartbeat lulls him to sleep, and he's out again before he can stop himself.

* * *

She wakes. It's sudden and alarming because of the nightmare she'd been having, and it takes her a moment to get her bearings. The king-sized bed. The luxurious sheets. The heavy built-ins. All the books. She'd never been in here until last night, and even then, she wasn't exactly surveying the layout of the room. Her appraising gaze falls to the other side of the bed. He is sprawled out next to her and she smiles at how he even _sleeps_ like a child. She sits for a moment and takes it all in. This could be it: this could be her morning reality for the next... however long. Four months? Two years? The rest of her life? _Whoa, there, that last one was a little... scary..._ She takes a breath, lets it sink in, watches him sleep. She's almost convinced that she could do it.

Nimbly, she slips from the bed and picks her way through the room, collecting her clothes. One of the fortunate things about the fact that she hadn't been drinking last night is that she has a pretty good idea of where everything might be. She's also relieved to find that her things have dried since last night, even if they'd wrinkled. She makes her way to the bathroom next, where she dresses, splashes water on her tired face, and uses the toilet.

She stands in lavishly spacious room for a while, taking in the double sinks, the shower, the jetted tub. She tries to imagine her meager toiletries beside his. Her loufa could hang on that peg, maybe. Her towel could go over there. She could probably share his toothbrush holder. Or was she getting ahead of herself? She gazes at the tub and envisions sitting in it with a book, some candles, a glass of wine... and then, unbidden, her fantasy becomes the two of them, reclining together in the tub, and she realizes that she hopes she _isn't_ getting ahead of herself, simply deciding where her things would go. She wants him, unequivocally, in her life. But this moment has made it clear that last night, and this morning, are also things that she wants in her life—regularly, and for a long time.

She's careful to turn out the light in the bathroom before she emerges, so as not to disturb him while he sleeps. It's dim in the bedroom, with its heavy drapes and dark wood furniture. She tiptoes over to him and watches him from above. Panic briefly sets in again. Is she really ready? She's so good at running. The door is only feet away. Her heart pounds, her breathing hitches. He is asleep and oblivious, and he might be hurt, but he couldn't possibly be surprised...

She kneels on the bed and he stirs, rolls onto his side, away from her, toward where she had been sleeping, and she bites back a gasp as his hand absently travels her empty side of the bed. He'd eventually be fine, but could _she_ survive his devastation when he realized she was gone? Could _they_survive it? She won't be able to face him afterwards; when she runs this time, she'll need to disappear completely. She stands again, poised to break for the door the next time he moves.

Then again... she really wants to see her loufa on that peg and her toothbrush next to his.

Long moments pass. Then, with shaky, careful hands, she undresses, folding everything and setting it on the seat of an armchair in the corner of the room. She stands beside the bed for what feels like ages, working up the courage to climb back in. But ultimately she does, and the mattress barely shifts with her weight, and it's almost like she had never moved in the first place. Her body is taut with tension, and her heart is hammering in her chest as she considers the ramifications of her _stayin__g_. Still, she manages to push herself back, into him, and he responds with the fluidity of sleep, curling himself around her from behind and wrapping his arm tenderly across her midsection.

She closes her eyes and breathes him in. It calms her. She feels both safe and relaxed, and, yes, she could get used to this. As she feels herself succumbing to sleep, she fleetingly wonders why she would have _ever_ thought that running would be easier than _this_. And, in the moments before she's asleep again, her eyes flutter open and she glances at the clock for the first time all night: 5:08 AM.


End file.
